


Stop The War, I Want To Go Home

by glassonion_archivist



Category: Star Trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-23
Updated: 2003-05-23
Packaged: 2019-06-19 10:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15507726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassonion_archivist/pseuds/glassonion_archivist
Summary: War is hell.





	Stop The War, I Want To Go Home

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Glass Onion](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Glass_Onion), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Glass Onion’s collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/glassonion/profile).

Stop The War, I Want To Go Home

## Stop The War, I Want To Go Home

### by nostalgia
    
    
         From: "nostalgia" <>
         Date: Wednesday, March 19, 2003 2:50 AM
    
         Title: Stop The War, I Want To Go Home
         Author: nostalgia
         Rated: PG
         Fandom: Deep Space Nine
         Disclaimer: Paramount own these things, I merely 
         use them for my own ends.
         Summary: War is hell. 
    

* * *

Sometimes he wonders what he did to deserve this. Sometimes he wonders if this is species karma, a punishment for misdeeds of the past handed down from on high by someone for whom existence is just a game. 

He stands at the window, hand on glass, dark skin against an infinity of nothingness. He longs to break through the thin protective shell, scream in silence as he walks out into obliteration and oblivion. In his other hand s a list scrolls past on a tiny screen, dead names and lost lives. He wishes that the numbers would lapse into simple statistics, detached from reality, abstract and meaningless. 

Last month he stopped dividing the lists. Last month he pressed a button and with a single motion merged the innocent and the knowing. The soldiers became civilians in uniform. By now the distinction is barely valid. On the desk behind him a clutter of screens rotate through a list of shattered hulls; the Robeson, the Franklin, the Mandela...each accompanied by the names of people he never knew, never met. 

Outside, the swirling blue eye opens and another battleship disappears into the glittering iris. He stares into the wormhole, vainly looking for the lights on the other side. 

"Is this a just war?" he ask the eye. "Is this just..." Just war, only war... Will historians a hundred years from now glance back in despair, curse his name, list him among murderers? 

He reminds himself that he didn't start this, that he has found himself a victim of alien aggression. But the battles are fought in his name, and he stands on the front line, staring out through thick glass at a battlefield of stars, Whatever did he do to deserve this life? 

Just war, only war...if he wins the battles will he bring back the dead? 

He didn't sign up for this. He had planned a life of peace, exploration and discovery. He remembers having the moral high ground. 

He turns away and lashes out, swiping an angry hand across the desk. A sharp clattering as the objects fall - the notes, the lists, the baseball, the harsh facts. A shattered screen slides from its frame and digs into his flesh. Annoyed, he wipes at the blood, but succeeds only in smearing the blood across his palm. 

The fury fades as he stares down at his own hand. The skin glares back at him, gleaming red-brown in the artificial light. Another rub of skin against skin and both his hands are covered. The drying liquid chants his name, accusing him, stealing his hope. 

And now he falls, stumbling to his knees, blood mixing with tears as he wipes at his eyes. 

He never asked for this. 

The screen lying before him, shattered now like crazy paving, still scrolls through its tale, a litany of the sins of both sides. 

He drops his hands, stares at the words as he blinks to clear his vision. 

He whispers his words to any who will listen: "Make it stop... please...make it stop..." 

But he knows that no one will hear him. 

* * *

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